Waking up
by pieceofart666
Summary: When Sherlock dies, the hopelessness doesn't seem to end for John...or does it? My first fanfic, a short story with some Johnlock in the end.


**I'm terribly sorry for my grammar mistakes, I think I have fixed most of them now, but if you see anything that isn't right - just let me know. :D It's a school assignment too by the way, and as the description says, it's supposed to be a short story... What do you guys think? Is it a short story, or just a story? I'm handing it in on Thursday. Anyway; I hope you enjoy it! :D **

**- pieceofart666**

_«Hi, are you alright?»_

_«Turn around and og back where you came from.»_

_«Eh-»_

_«Just do as I say! Please.»_

Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong, and I should have known it. I look out the window. It's today. The anniversary, one can say. Or maybe the end. The end of the rush, of the adrenaline, of everything. It's two years ago the game ended. There's no purpose anymore – or at least I haven't found it yet. I wonder if I ever will.

The only conversation partner I usually have now is the skull over the mantelpiece. But he doesn't answer, never does – you always did. I wonder if it understands me at all. Maybe it understands only French? You talked to it in French so often that maybe it's forgotten any other language.

_«Stay away from him,» she said. «You will only get in trouble. This man-» she pointed at you, «is a psychopath. He enjoys this, every murder is a puzzle, and I'm afraid that one day we will find a body, and he'll be the one to place it there.»_

Well, now he never will.

They doubted you. Consulting detective, the best in the world, the only one in the world. They doubted you. They thought you had come up with everything, that everything you said was a lie.

_«This is an apology. Everything they say, is true.»_

_«What?»_

_«Everything they say about me, is true. I invented Moriarty.»_

_«Why are you saying this?»_

_«I'm a fake. Everything in the papers is true. I want you to tell Lestrade, to Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell everyone that will listen to you. That I invented everything, for my own purposes.»_

Everything was destroyed. All the lies, all the news paper articles, everything was a lie. I knew, I always knew, even if you wanted me to believe the lies in the end. Why? My leg is bad again, and my cane is with me everywhere. An illusion, everything was, everything is an illusion. Is it?

Your coat is flapping in the wind. You're so pale, I can't see these beautiful gray eyes of yours, you're too far away, I would've seen it if you lied.

You're flying.

I'm screaming.

The time goes too fast, and too slow. I'm running towards you, get hit by a cyclist, I'm falling, I'm on the pavement – you're on the pavement, oh God – I must get to you, no, no, no.. I'm running, and the world is crashing down, spinning around me.

« I'm a doctor, let me go to him, I'm a doctor, it's my friend there, it's my friend…» Everything's spinning, and the blood, I see the blood, and the man who's taking your pulse shakes his head – no, no – I take your pulse, I can't feel anything, no, and the hands, the hands that drag me away from you while the nurses turn you around – your beautifull gray eyes, always so full of life, so lifeless now – and lay you on the stretcher, your wild black curls sticking together because of the blood, everything spins, the pavement comes towards me, no, it's my friend, no, Sherlock, no, and I don't know if the words are only in my head or if I'm actually saying something, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm a doctor. I've seen it many times out in the field, too many. I know. You're gone. The game is over. The game is finished.

It's late night, and it's as silent as it can get in the centre of London. I do not sit in my chair. Yours has been empty for two years. You made so many miracles, you were one yourself.

«Why?» I ask the skull. It doesn't answer. I want to knock it down, shout at it, break it until there's no more left of it than dust. But it's yours, it was a part of you, so I can't bring myself to do it. Not yet. Will I ever?

There's almost nothing left of strength in me as I fall to the floor and beg, one more time, knowing that it's ridiculous, that it won't happen, that it's over. It will never be over.

Maybe if I'd just told you. Told you everything, then at least I wouldn't have to worry about the «what if's».

«Give me one more miracle. Stop this nonsense. Stop being dead.»

I'm lost. I'm here, and I'm not. It's too silent. I can't take it anymore, and I let myself weep, knowing that no one will hear me – Mrs. Hudson is gone for the weekend.

I jump awake when I feel hands around my shoulders and lips on my forehead, shushing me.

«I heard you,» I hear you say. «I'm here.» Am I hallucinating? Suddenly I'm naked, and there are sheets around me. I look up. A pair of beautiful, gray eyes are looking down on me with worry. I saw these eyes die. But it's two and a half years ago. I remember now. It's okay, everything's okay now.

I smile.


End file.
